


If You Try Sometimes

by wedjateye



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-03
Updated: 2012-06-03
Packaged: 2017-11-06 18:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wedjateye/pseuds/wedjateye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"...just like that, Aya’s brain mutinies and devotes almost every waking moment to contemplation of the question of just who Yohji won’t fuck. He’s like a sexual black hole, inexorably pulling in everyone he encounters. He doesn’t even seem to put a lot of effort into it. The more Aya pays attention, the more he notices that while, yes, Yohji flirts, he mostly just lazes around as men and women throw themselves at him. It’s fascinating, in a disgusting kind of way."</p><p>Inspired by Crysothemis' excellent SGA story 'Do Over'. Title from the Rolling Stones' song 'You Can't Always Get What You Need'. Repost of old fic (2008) from Livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Aya’s room at the Koneko is bitterly cold for six months of the year, with barely a pause before it fills with heated air as thick and sickly as treacle. It’s nowhere near large enough to swing a Katana and the only view, of grey, bird-shit spattered bricks, inspires nothing other than preferential contemplation of paint slowly peeling from the walls. So Aya almost reconsiders when ornery habit finds him refusing Omi’s sweetly voiced offer of a room-swap. It’s an unusually slow shift in the flower shop and, undeterred by Aya’s refusal, Omi prattles on at length. Apparently he harbours regret that Aya had no choice of abode when he arrived. Apparently he views the team as family. Aya’s like a brother, an older brother, entitled to Omi’s deference –

Aya blinks. For a moment there, he thought he saw Omi’s hand twitching towards a dart concealed in his sleeve, his eyes flashing anger, as a tiny wrinkled grandmother coughed politely to request her usual dozen yellow roses.

“Let me help you with those,” Aya says eventually, stepping around Omi who seems as frozen as the smile he’s forced.

Aya spends the next hour polishing the shop windows, pretending not to notice Omi’s excellent imitation of his usual self. He knows he won’t crack first. He’s worked too hard at projecting obliviousness to his team-mates pathetic vagaries to blow it now.

Bloody Ken though. Forty-five minutes late, with his t-shirt back-to-front, mismatched socks, red eyes and, annoyingly, total immunity to Aya’s best fuck-off vibe as he barrels across the shop floor to grab Aya’s apron strings and get right in his face.

“Aya, you have to help me,” Ken says, voice roughened by emotion.

Aya’s head whacks against the plate glass. Fuck. Morning breath is bad enough before noon. Somebody needs to buy Ken-ken a toothbrush.

“Please Aya. I’ll give you anything: my firstborn, a kidney, my signed J-league poster. Well, the division two one anyway.”

Aya snaps his forearms up, fists clenched, to break Ken’s grip. He’s surprised at the solid resistance he encounters.

“Division one then!” Ken bargains desperately. “I knew you’d be a total bastard about this. You don’t even like football.”

“Get your hands off Ken or I’ll do it for you – ”

“Aya,” Ken pleads.

“ – and I’ll use the bluntest, rustiest blade I can find.”

“You have to swap rooms with me; I can’t take it any more.”

“Omi, hand me those pruners.”

But Omi’s launching himself into the fray, voice cracking as he yells; “I asked first!” Ken whirls to defend himself, arms crossed in front of his face as Omi lands wild, open-handed slaps.

Aya slides away, flipping the ‘closed’ sign over as he passes. This looks like it’s going to take a while.

“Somebody critique Omi’s flower arrangements?” Yohji’s voice is low and close, his chin brushing against Aya’s shoulder, but Aya’s too bemused by Ken and Omi rolling all over the floor to step away. He snorts.

“Should I break it up?” Yohji asks, waving a spray gun into Aya’s view.

“No,” Aya answers after a moment’s consideration, during which two pots smash. “Too muddy.”

“Okay,” Yohji agrees easily.

“Do you want to swap rooms with me?” Aya asks.

“I was thinking more along the lines of making popcorn and fetching some beers but it’s nice to know I can always count on you for random,” Yohji laughs.

“Hmm.” Aya drifts away, feeling vaguely unsatisfied.

“Hey! Don’t leave me with all the patching-up,” Yohji complains.

“Their mess, their problem.”

“No, no,” Yohji points to Omi and Ken, both more-or-less in foetal positions, their sides heaving, “patching them up.”

Yohji’s pulling puppy-dog eyes at him. Does he think that works on anyone besides the fangirls? Aya shakes his head as Yohji’s brows contort and his sunglasses slip so far down his nose he has to rescue them, pushing them up with an impossibly long finger.

“This is all your fault Yohji,” Ken croaks.

Damn. Aya wants to know after all.

~

“Ouch!”

“Sorry.”

Ken glares at Aya’s obvious insincerity but what does he expect? Thirty minutes of constant bitching and moaning would get on anyone’s nerves. Aya jabs a steri-strip onto Ken’s brow to forestall another falsetto rendition of ‘Oooh, oooh, right there Yohji, yeeeesss, right-fucking-there’.

“You know what? I’ll just wait until one of the others is free, thanks all the same,” Ken snaps, one hand clapped protectively to his face.

Aya shrugs and glances to where Yohji is picking bits of dirt and terracotta from Omi’s knees. He hasn’t surfaced for a good twenty minutes and if the colour of his ears are anything to go by, he’s either had his head hanging down for far too long… or he’s embarrassed. Not possible. Yohji doesn’t do embarrassed. Not about anything but especially not about sex. But then, he hasn’t exactly been gloating and preening as Ken complains bitterly about his lack of sleep.

“Does it have to be a different girl every damn night?” Ken continues. “Get a girlfriend and teach her to be quiet.”

That gets Yohji to lift his head at least, even if his shoulders are still hunched into a tight, unhappy curve.

“You going to explain to her when I don’t come back from a mission, Ken?” His voice crackles with anger.

Ken looks nonplussed for a moment but he’s got a good head of steam going and he won’t easily be derailed. “Stay at their places then.”

“Can’t,” Yohji answers flatly.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Ken, just leave it,” Omi interjects wearily. “We’ll have more missions soon, I’m sure, and Yohji won’t be… it’ll be quiet at night again.”

Ken laughs harshly. “I have to hope for a mission in order to get some sleep? That’s a joke. Fine, I’ll get a girlfriend and stay at her place.” He stands abruptly and rips off the few skin sutures that Aya had managed to make stick amidst the blood and eyebrow hair. “I’m going to Magic Bus. Maybe I can crash there after they stitch me up.”

Omi looks sad as Ken stomps out and Yohji slings an arm around his shoulder. Aya surprises himself by breaking the silence.

“Ken dates girls?”

“Of course he does,” Yohji replies, “why wouldn’t he?”

Aya doesn’t know how to answer that. How can Yohji dress like he does and not have a functioning gaydar? Didn’t he notice that Omi came out of that fight in far better shape than Ken, despite the fact that Ken managed to knock Aya unconscious when they went head to head? What did Yohji think that first fight was about anyway? Aya had barely opened his mouth when Ken turned all alpha-dog protecting his bitches.

“Well, Kase,” Aya answers finally, shaking his head to dispel the memory of waking up.

“You have a point,” Omi chirps. Yohji nods agreement but Aya can tell from the quirk of his mouth that he can’t see it.

~

The tap, tap, tap of stiletto heels carries the length of a corridor, knifes through solid wood doors and effortlessly plunges into dreams; even the smothering dreams that follow hours of intense physical exercise. Aya curses in the dark, heart pounding. Third time this week. Bloody Ken. Aya was happy in his ignorance. Well, happy is stretching it but his misery was familiar and fit him as easily as a worn sweater. Lying here, trying not to strain his ears for the soft creak that means Yohji’s back in his room after kissing his date goodbye, or whatever it is he does, is driving Aya insane. The first night he got up to make a point but that was worse. Bumping into Yohji on his way back upstairs, bare chested, reeking of sex, hair rumpled, lazily satisfied smile… It’s just inconsiderate.

Omi and Ken are no help. They seem pleased that Yohji has cut back a bit and persuaded his visitors to scream less. The expensive i-pods that appeared at the breakfast table after the flower shop was half demolished probably helped. Aya was not miffed that there wasn’t one at his usual place. Not at all. Yohji didn’t owe him an apology. Especially not one that involved hair ruffling and a laughing ‘don’t worry, I love you just as much, baby’.

Aya just doesn’t want to be distracted. Revenge takes planning and dedication. Stray thoughts about how Yohji manages to find so many women willing to sleep with him, no strings attached, are not welcome. And pointless. Because Yohji’s got some things going for him, sure. The slouchy way he leans against the counter, for example. And the mellowness in his voice when he’s trying not to laugh. Women probably find that sexy. His jeans fit pretty well too – nice and tight across… The point is, Aya’s never going to get it because it just doesn’t add up. One of these days Yohji will get slapped down and the spell will be broken.

In the meantime, Aya decides to refocus by training. Lots and lots of training. Long, sweaty sessions with his katana, that last way past the time he has to worry about excess traffic in the corridor. For a week this works beautifully. He misses a few morning starts in the flower shop but it’s mostly Yohji who has to cover for him, so that’s karmic. Then late one night he’s returning to his room when Yohji’s door opens without warning. Aya instinctively flattens himself against the wall. His stealth is wasted when he blurts, ‘Ken, what the fuck are you doing?’

Aya wishes he could snatch the words back because why on earth wouldn’t Ken be leaving Yohji’s room? They were probably watching a movie or something. Team-mates do that sort of thing, or so Aya’s heard. It’s called bonding.

Ken tells him much the same thing. Several times. He stammers through the first explanation but by the end he’s full of righteous indignation. Aya tries not to stare at the stain on the front of Ken’s track pants.

Bonding.

And just like that, Aya’s brain mutinies and devotes almost every waking moment to contemplation of the question of just who Yohji won’t fuck. He’s like a sexual black hole, inexorably pulling in everyone he encounters. He doesn’t even seem to put a lot of effort into it. The more Aya pays attention, the more he notices that while, yes, Yohji flirts, he mostly just lazes around as men and women throw themselves at him. It’s fascinating, in a disgusting kind of way.

Not Ken though. He continues calling Yohji an asshole with equal parts affection and exasperation, exactly as he’s always done. It messes with Aya’s head. Maybe Ken and Yohji have been fuckbuddies the whole time he’s known them. Maybe he imagined the hallway encounter entirely. He wants desperately to stop thinking about it but Yohji’s stupid shrinking wardrobe keeps giving him glimpses of flesh. Flesh that Ken put his hands on. Sucked, touched, fucked…

“Penny for them.”

Aya startles into awareness of his surroundings. Yohji’s eyes are a dark gleam across the cabin of their non-descript white van.

“I ran out of caffeine forever ago. My butt is so numb I may never shimmy on the dance floor again and there must be at least three hours before we can officially call it quits.” Yohji’s teeth look luminescent. It’s distracting. “So it’s down to you to entertain me.”

“The target could show up at any time,” Aya replies dismissively.

“Sure he could,” Yohji answers brightly, “that’s why you’ve been staring at your knees for the last hour.”

Aya tries to work up some annoyance but all he manages is an equivocal grunt.

“Come on Aya. You’ve been worrying that bone for days now. Spit it out before it chokes you.”

That’s Yohji’s reasonable voice. The one he uses for over-excited fangirls and suspicious security guards. Aya hesitates. What the hell. Maybe asking will clear his head. Where to start though…

“I was wondering if you’re just waiting for Omi to turn eighteen before you sleep with him.”

Yohji’s head cracks back loudly against the window. “What?”

“I’m assuming that you’re serious when you say you won’t date anyone under-aged. But I haven’t been able to narrow down any of your other criteria. Except breathing, I guess.”

Yohji doesn’t speak or move. His breaths sound rough in the stillness.

“Breathing _is_ a prerequisite?” Aya asks, feeling disturbed.

“Of course it – ” Yohji makes an impatient stabbing gesture at his own face. Poking at sunglasses that aren’t there.

“Good,” Aya says, relieved. “What does it take for you to actually say no to sex then?”

Yohji stares at Aya for a long moment. Maybe he’s never actually said no. Aya thinks back to the many times he’s seen Yohji accept cards slid across the shop counter. The numbers are mind-boggling.

“Are you trying to hit on me?”

There’s Aya’s store of annoyance. In between fury and ire. “Did you bleach your brain along with your roots?”

“Because I don’t think it would be a good idea,” Yohji continues, oblivious to his impending decapitation. “We’re team-mates. It’d get in the way.”

Aya’s short fuse fizzles in the glare of Yohji’s inconsistency. “That’s obviously not what you told Ken.”

“Ken?” Yohji’s giving his vocal chords an octave-spanning work out. “What’s Ken got to do with anything?”

Aya frowns.

“Fuck,” Yohji mutters. “That was different.”

Past tense. Not that… just an observation. “Sure it was,” Aya answers in a passable imitation of Yohji’s bright tone from earlier.

Yohji waves his hands around jerkily then slumps back in his seat, staring out the window. “It was... Yuriko… I kind of owed him.”

Aya shakes his head in disbelief. “You regularly pay debts with blowjobs, do you?”

“Fuck you, Aya,” Yohji hisses. “I don’t owe you a goddamned thing.” He cracks the door open then glances back over his shoulder. “My room, midday. One time only. Take it or leave it.” His hair is just visible as he lopes away. Aya’s thoughts skitter around wildly before settling on disbelief that Yohji ran. Ran, from a conversation. Then a blur of movement at the edge of Aya’s vision has him scrambling for his katana and the door release. Shit. The target’s car is right there and Yohji is without back-up. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

~

Fucking stupid alright. Losing focus gets you all manner of bodily fluids soaking into your coat. Blood may be slimy but Aya will take it any day over bile and whatever other shit… best not to think about it really. Another mission down. Another dark beast felled. Another marathon shower. Nothing to do now but sleep until dark and then practice that killing stroke half the night until he remembers to never stuff it up again.

Sleep.

All he needs is a few hours and he’ll be back on track.

Fuck Yohji and his jumping to conclusions anyway. Let him suffer the unwanted bodily fluids that’ll bring. His problem.

Sleep.

Aya finds himself staring out of the window. The view is even more depressing illuminated by bright sunshine. He grits his teeth. He’s going to sleep if it kills him.

Right after he sets Yohji straight. That asshole.


	2. Chapter 2

Yohji answers the door far too quickly for Aya to get any satisfaction from pounding on it. Aya crosses his arms, ready to let him have it, but Yohji turns away, stepping into the room, leaving the door open as if he expects Aya to follow him in. He’s wearing nothing other than faded gray track-pants, slung low on his hips, and Aya can see the muscles along his shoulders bunched up into knots.

“Guess we better get this over with,” Yohji mumbles, sounding distinctly unenthused.

Aya’s thrown. It’s as if Yohji knew he was going to turn up to yell at him. Has his unpredictability become that predictable? And how can Yohji have him so pegged whilst he’s been wasting all this time wandering what’s going on behind those improbably green eyes?

Eyes that are boring right into him, right now. Aya freezes as Yohji steps well into his personal space, reaching over his shoulder to pull the door closed with a sharp click. He doesn’t move away and Aya finds himself trying to swallow with a bone-dry throat, fighting the urge to shove. Something isn’t gelling here. Yohji looks almost as panicked as Aya is trying not to feel.

Midday.

The word is a solid presence in Aya’s brain, the implications dropping like a stone into his gut. Denial and explanations tumble over each other on the way to his tongue but they are beaten to the punch by Yohji, lunging for his mouth.

Aya’s knocked off balance by what feels more like a frontal assault than a kiss. He scrabbles at Yohji’s shoulders, fingers trying to find purchase on shifting bone and muscle, as they career back against the wall. Yohji’s knee knocks painfully into his and then Aya steps on Yohji’s foot whilst trying to right himself. He flails but it’s too late, they’re tangled so thoroughly that they both go down. Yohji’s teeth wrench at Aya’s lip so hard he’s sure some of the wetness must be blood rather than slobber.

“Fuck, Yohji! There are easier ways to kill me,” Aya complains, squirming to get a hand free to assess the damage to his mouth. Yohji tries to sit up and ends up banging his head on a chest of drawers. He curses so fervently that Aya feels appeased.

“So, that went well,” Yohji notes, heaving himself up onto one elbow and looking down at Aya, face unreadable.

Aya stops sucking on his lip long enough to reply, “at least you aren’t bleeding.”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Yohji answers. He’s smiling but he looks like he means it and the kiss he drops onto the opposite corner of Aya’s mouth is gentle with apology. Yohji’s hair brushes against the sides of Aya’s face, creating an uncomfortably intimate alcove, warm from their mingled breaths. Aya blinks very slowly a couple of times until he can’t stand it any longer. Yohji’s lips give way easily when he presses his own against them and this time they tilt their heads in unison to create the perfect angle.

As long as Aya’s doing something, he doesn’t have to think about what it is he’s doing. So he kisses for all he’s worth and after a tentative moment Yohji comes on board, sliding a hand up to cup Aya’s jaw and working his tongue deeper into Aya’s mouth. It’s good. It’s better than good. Aya had forgotten how amazing this could feel. Though maybe it’s never been like this before because Yohji really seems to know his stuff and, damn it, that’s his brain kicking in again.

Aya pulls back to take a breath, licking at the faint taste of mint inside his mouth. Yohji must have brushed his teeth. He got ready. For Aya.

Maybe they should move to the bed.

Fuck.

Is it too late to set things straight?

Much too late. Yohji’s moving right along, sliding down Aya’s chest, one hand already undoing the button of his pants. Aya can’t speak, can’t say a thing around the knuckle that he’s unthinkingly shoved into his mouth. At least it stifles the moan he can’t quite contain. He holds his breath and tries to stay still but Yohji’s not cooperating. He got Aya’s dick out quickly enough but now he seems to just want to look at it. Pretending that this isn’t really happening is becoming less and less of an option with every second that ticks by. Aya finally lifts his head to see what the hold-up is. A quick, guilty look is flung in his direction, then Yohji closes his eyes and lowers his mouth.

Finally.

Aya lies back and bites the heel of his hand but after a moment he feels ridiculous. Yohji’s really taking his time; licking softly and trailing his fingers idly back and forth along the shaft of Aya’s dick. It’s nowhere near enough stimulation and Aya wants to vent his frustration by grabbing Yohji’s head and thrusting deep. The tension building in his body translates into twitches and abortive twists of his hips that finally seem to goad Yohji into taking him in deeper. Aya doesn’t get to wallow in relief, or Yohji’s mouth, for long though, because Yohji keeps varying his angle, changing his grip and sliding off altogether.

“Yohji!” Aya grits out, because something’s going to break if he doesn’t get some rhythm and soon.

“Okay, okay,” Yohji pants, diving back to work. His head starts bobbing in earnest, one hand clutching hard at the base of Aya’s dick. Aya squeezes his eyes shut and feels the wave of sensation building along his spine. He’s getting there, he’s almost there, he’s – “teeth, fuck, teeth!”

Aya shoves at Yohji’s shoulders, pain and arousal colluding to render him clumsy. Yohji pulls away with alacrity, still roughly jerking Aya with one hand. Aya’s body bucks wildly, his throat aches from the effort of containing a scream until finally he flops back to ground, hands fumbling protectively for his groin.

“That good, huh?” Yohji asks, grinning down at him. The bastard looks pleased with himself.

“That was the worst blow-job I’ve ever had.” It’s true. His high-school girlfriend doesn’t count. An overactive gag reflex is just... well, really unfortunate. But anyway, guys like giving head, if only because of the likelihood of reciprocation, and this was Yohji’s idea, so he’s got no excuse and Aya’s absolutely not going to take it back, let alone say sorry just because Yohji looks –

“Oh.”

Aya drags his eyes away. It’s been a while but usually he feels better than this after an orgasm. Maybe if he –

“I don’t think so.” Yohji slaps Aya’s hand away from the waistband of his pants.

“But – ”

Yohji’s already on his feet. He’s always been quick when he wants to be. Though he could fucking wait for Aya to cover himself up before yanking the door open. Aya scrambles up whilst trying to get a firm grasp on his zipper, sticky with semen. Before he wins the struggle, he’s on the wrong side of a closed door, wondering what the hell just happened.

~

Yohji obviously doesn’t waste any time on soul-searching. He breezes through the kitchen later that evening with his fuck-of-the-night in tow.

“Maybe he met her at a fancy dress party,” Omi says weakly, once they’ve all managed to stop gagging on the caustic cloud of perfume. He gestures vaguely at his own body, as if conjuring fishnets, a micro-skirt and an atrocious wig.

“Whatever he’s paying her, it’s too much,” Ken grunts.

“Ken-kun!” Omi reproves.

Aya maintains a dignified silence. It’s Yohji’s business if he wants to trawl gutters. Aya’s well and truly explored his curiosity. That encounter could have killed a truck-load of cats.

~

There’s not much silence, dignified or otherwise, to be had for the rest of the night. Aya’s too exhausted to do anything other than jam his head under his pillow and curse. He hopes Yohji had to pay a fortune for all the screaming.

~

When Aya shows up for his shift in the flower shop the next afternoon, Ken is surprisingly cheerful for someone who had to get up and work on not very much sleep. He cracks jokes with customers and even opens the shop door with a flourish for the regulars. Yohji seems a little subdued but Aya’s probably imagining that. Trying to parse Yohji’s moods is second nature now.

Ken gives him a hand pulling the shutters down at the end of the day and Aya catches sight of his knuckles – reddened, just beginning to scab. Suddenly he itches to whip Yohji’s sunglasses from his face. He’s gone though. Slippery as always.

Aya has to wait over two days for another chance. Two days of skulking around the common areas, trying to ignore Ken and Omi’s bewildered looks and silence his own scathing inner monologue. It’s a puzzle. That’s all. Once he’s unravelled it he’ll be able to move on.

And here’s Yohji at last. Alone. Leaning against the doorway, raising one eyebrow at the expensive bottle of sake on the kitchen table.

“I’m celebrating,” Aya says, wincing at the unintended loudness. He will be celebrating in a moment at least. Ah, yes! Yohji takes a tentative step forward. Prey, meet bait.

“How many have you had?” Yohji asks.

“Not nearly enough,” Aya answers fervently. Not nearly enough to keep the wait from dragging across his nerves. “Pull up a glass.” Yohji hovers indecisively. Aya peers at him, hoping his intent is hidden by the same bloody dim light that’s foiling his inspection.

“It’s late Aya.”

“C’mon Yohji, drinking alone is a bad, bad sign of… something that you can save me from.”

“I’m pretty toasted already.”

All the better. “What’s one more then?” Aya misjudges his push of the bottle towards Yohji who ends up jumping to rescue it from an untimely end on the kitchen tiles. Aya beams happily. Sake makes everything better. Yohji shrugs and snags a glass before sliding in to the chair opposite Aya.

“What are we celebrating?”

“Hmm?” Aya drags his gaze away from the smudges of purple and green around Yohji’s eye.

Yohji jiggles the bottle in his direction as he pours. “What’s the occasion?”

Ahh. What’s his cover again? Drowning his sorrows? Death of a friend, maybe. Will Yohji believe he has any friends? Does he have any friends?

“We’re friends, right?”

Yohji gives him a long look, then nods a little to himself. “Sure we are. You saved my life just last week. Or the week before. Maybe both.”

“That doesn’t count,” Aya answers, disappointed.

Yohji sighs. “What do you want Aya?”

Aya spends too long thinking about his answer. Yohji drains his glass and puts both hands on the edge of the table, ready to push his chair back.

“Why don’t you stay at their places?’ Aya blurts. Damn, that isn’t what he wants to ask at all.

“What?”

“You know,” Aya gestures towards the door. “Your… dates.”

Yohji rubs both his hands over his face, leaving them there as he answers tiredly. “Because I’m a selfish asshole, alright? It’s a drag having to get myself home.”

“Yohji.” Aya’s voice cracks on his name. The sake is beginning to turn his stomach.

Yohji drags his hands down low enough so that he can look over them, right into Aya’s eyes.

“Falling asleep with someone is too… It’s better this way. They know exactly what they’re getting. Or not getting, more to the point.”

“Not getting,” Aya echoes slowly. “Yeah.”

“Fuck off Aya.” Yohji’s face looks painfully tight as he scrapes his chair back. “We’ve never been friends and we never will be.”

Aya’s head makes a satisfying ‘thunk’ in the empty room as it thuds against the table.

~

Aya resolves to get back on track and let the whole thing go. Yohji’s not worth the lost brain cells and sluggish reflexes. Do the damn targets really have to pound so hard as they charge him? He’s going to slay them just as dead if they keep the noise down a bit. Bloody Yohji, staring again. Doesn’t he know it’s a potentially lethal distract –

“Oops.” Aya almost trips over a corpse. Where did that come from?

“You’re welcome,” Yohji says pointedly, reeling in wire and leaping away.

Aya tries to wipe sweat out of his eyes. Stupid non-absorbent leather gloves. He’s really, really letting it go after this.

~

Maybe he needs to send Yohji a memo. Or ask Omi to pass him a note or something. He doesn’t seem on board with the whole letting it go idea. His posture is relaxed and his expression is neutral but he hasn’t looked away from Aya once during the longest mission debriefing Aya’s ever endured. Aya’s head was finally clear again, thanks to a steady diet of aspirin, but now he’s getting a tension headache from being the epicentre of so much attention.

Omi seems seriously amused. Manx began with a mix of concern and suspicion but has now developed a steady seethe. She’s been trying to divert Yohji with an impressive arsenal of hair flicks and cleavage flashing manoeuvres and hasn’t gained any ground at all. Ken’s reaction is the only one Aya is uncertain of and that’s a worry, since Ken’s poker face doesn’t even fool his soccer brats. He doesn’t seem annoyed, or jealous, or even vaguely interested. He looks bored stiff, which he should be. Aya would be bored stiff if he weren’t thinking of inventive ways to kill everyone in the room.

Manx admits defeat at last, snapping her briefcase closed and tucking her pout away for another day. Aya slips out quickly, stretching his upper back as he goes. He’s going to be able to feel the imprint of every brick in the damn wall he was leaning against for hours.

~

Back to normal at last. No funny looks from anyone. No swirling undercurrents of… anything. Just the soothing scent of perfectly ordered flowers. Aya checks the time. Ten more minutes to closing and he’ll be able to escape without having exchanged a word of conversation all day. Totally worth the six hours it took to clean every cranny of the storeroom. Aya takes a deep, serene breath, then vents it in an exasperated rush of words: “What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Sunflowers?” Yohji blinks innocently at him from the doorway.

Water sloshes over the side of the nearest bucket as it skids away from Aya’s boot.

“I can probably make a case for gerberas if you feel that strongly about it,” Yohji says, eyebrows raised in apparent concern.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Aya demands. Yohji tries on the same look Omi and Ken often give Aya. The ‘I’ll just hide all the sharp objects whilst making soothing small talk’ look. Fine, if that’s the way he wants to play it. Aya pushes past Yohji to leave.

“Wait.”

“Why should I?” Aya asks. And really, right at this moment he doesn’t care any more. Being sidetracked by Yohji has been singularly unrewarding to date.

“Aya – ”

Aya turns back to find a muddle of emotions twisting Yohji’s mouth. He can’t decipher them all, but he registers yearning before Yohji’s face settles into a familiar mix of resolve and recklessness. It’s an expression Aya associates with being outflanked and outgunned and he’s so busy fighting the urge to look over his shoulder that he almost misses Yohji’s words.

“I think we should go again.”

“Huh?”

Yohji changes his stance; drops a shoulder and juts one hip as if leaning against an invisible counter. His lips curl lazily and the transformation is complete. Suddenly it’s as clear to Aya as if a neon sign was flashing right in front of him.

Sex. Yohji wants sex.

Aya feels himself relaxing. Sex is easy.

“You know,” Yohji drawls, “we should give it another shot.”

No need to make it too easy though.

“Oh?” Aya answers, crossing his arms.

“We got off on the wrong foot,” Yohji says smoothly.

“You were using your _feet?_ I guess that explains things.”

Yohji shifts awkwardly but ploughs on determinedly. “Okay, look, I can’t have it getting about that I’m an unsatisfactory lay.” He widens his eyes and smiles winningly.

“Once I tell all at our next meeting with Persia, for example?” Aya answers blandly.

“Fine, scratch that,” Yohji grumps. “*I* know. I feel bad.” He mutters something under his breath that might be, ‘fuck only knows why’. “It’s a matter of professional – er – personal pride.”

Aya turns his snort of laughter into a cough and manages to sound perfectly serious when he says: “I thought it was just a one-off.”

“It was.” Yohji scratches the back of his head. “It is, but… only one of us got off, so it isn’t finished, I guess.”

Aya raises a quizzical eyebrow. He hasn’t had this much fun in years. “I can jerk you off here and now if you’re feeling a lack of *closure*.”

“No! That’s not what…” Yohji pauses and gives Aya a long, measuring look. “Let’s just do it right this time.” Aya cocks his head, as if thinking it over and Yohji huffs in irritation. “Look, I‘m asking nicely. You have no idea what this is costing me.”

“And I really don’t care,” Aya replies. Yohji apparently interprets that as acquiescence, judging by the way the lines between his brows smooth out. He heads for the door.

“Yeah, yeah. You coming or what?”

“Twice apparently,” Aya answers, but he’s already following.

“Asshole.”

~

Yohji hesitates in the upstairs hallway, as if unsure of his destination, but Aya’s having none of that. No way is he letting Yohji run away before he’s well and truly done with him this time and he won’t be caught off guard and shoved out into the corridor either. Aya takes hold of Yohji’s hand and doesn’t let go until he can push Yohji’s long, lean body down onto Yohji’s bed. Yohji stares up at him, looking marginally more comfortable than a landed fish. Some of the tension leaves his body when Aya swoops in to crush their lips together.

Oh yeah. Yohji’s mouth is as good as Aya remembered, anomalous blowjobs aside. He loses himself in the rhythm of kissing; langorous slide of tongues, followed by heart-tripping thrusts. The heat builds until Aya has to peel Yohji’s skin free of its coverings, has to mouth along every crest of bone and ridge of scar.

By the time Aya’s tongue travels the groove between taut abdominal muscles, he’s losing sight of his plan to deliver a salutary lesson in how *not* to get off on the wrong foot. Yohji’s babbled encouragement is less eloquent than the staccato movements of his hips, each one drawing attention to his erection, straining insistently just to the side of Aya’s pathway.

Aya closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, startled by a sudden head-rush of desire. He wants this. Wants Yohji so badly that he reaches for him with both hands and jams his mouth down over the head of Yohji’s dick, swallowing fast to feel nothing but heat, and skin, and the rough stretch of his jaw muscles. He tries to lose himself in the sensation, to reach the animal part of his brain that acts on pure instinct. He wants this to be good. He wants this to obliterate every other blow job Yohji’s ever had.

Instead, it’s raw and messy and Aya’s afraid his guts will tumble out long before Yohji comes down his throat. It’s probably the worst blowjob Aya’s ever given, so when Yohji pushes at Aya’s shoulder, he’s sure that he wants him to stop.

Aya pulls off to find Yohji’s eyes rolled back and his face scrunched up in a tell-tale ‘oh’ of pleasure. Yohji’s about to – reach for himself. Aya slaps Yohji’s hand away and leans in to finish what he started. This may be his only chance.

The barest touch of his lips triggers an explosive yell and an accompanying violent shove. The bed coverings afford no traction for Aya’s floundering and he crashes backwards to the accompaniment of Yohji’s climactic groans.

“Fuck.” Aya cradles his forearm in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Yohji mumbles hoarsely.

“No asshole, ‘fuck’ as in, my fucking wrist better not be fucking broken.”

Yohji’s dishevelled head appears over the side of the bed. “Seriously?”

Aya ignores him in favour of supinating and pronating. It doesn’t really hurt enough for a fracture but he’s too pissed off to want to wipe the look of dismay from Yohji’s face any time soon.

“Let me see,” Yohji slides off the bed, all warm limbs and glowing skin, landing almost in Aya’s lap.

“Hey.” Aya shifts away.

“Show me, Aya. We’ve got a mission tomorrow night.”

“And you have a medical degree stuffed under your mattress?”

“Maybe,” Yohji retorts, holding his hand out expectantly.

“Or do you just shove everyone out of bed, so you’ve got lots of experience with post-coital injuries?”

“I was just trying to warn you.”

“Warn me? Warn me of what?”

“You know,” Yohji finally drops his hand, looking harried.

Aya shakes his head in annoyance. “Ever heard of swallowing?”

Yohji flushes and answers sulkily, “you didn’t want me to swallow.”

“I didn’t want you to bite my dick off! There’s a difference.”

Yohji’s face closes up tightly. “So I’m not an expert at giving head. Haven’t we covered this already?”

“You brought it up.”

Aya doesn’t need to look to see Yohji’s answering eye-roll.

~

The echoing, airless feeling in Aya’s skull outlasts even the silent drive home from hospital. Every member of Weiss can tell the difference between a cast and the light compression bandage Aya’s sporting, but it wouldn’t kill Yohji to ask, would it?

~

“It’s fine.” Aya unclenches his jaw and runs through a silent litany to block out Omi’s objections. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Go directly to pissed off and stay there.

Omi’s volume increases until he slams a fist down on the kitchen table and all but bellows, “It’s your sword arm!”

“I’m ambidextrous. And it’s just a sprain,” Aya retorts.

A piercing whistle breaks their stand-off and Aya looks up to find their wooden pepper grinder on a trajectory to his face. He snatches it out of the air with millimetres to spare.

“Good enough for me, Omi. Let’s saddle up.” Ken grins at Aya who blinks back in confusion. Since when was Ken on his side for anything?

Yohji lifts his head from his folded arms and grunts something vaguely affirmative before making a break for the door, Ken on his heels.

~

Many days Aya can’t bear to look at himself in the mirror. Can’t stand to see what revenge has driven him to become. Some days he can’t even bring himself to visit his sister. No matter how long he hides in the shower, he will never be clean and she doesn’t deserve to be sullied by his touch.

Some nights though, some nights he’s so furious he could, well, murder someone. Some nights Aya’s job is like an all-you-can-eat buffet for the twisted black rage clawing at his ribs. Then sinew and muscle, bone and katana, meld into an unassailable force and Aya is glad if he’s outnumbered because even then it’s all over with too soon.

All over, with nothing left to do but… nothing to do but wipe that slack-jawed look of lust from Yohji’s face.

“Fuck me,” Yohji moans into Aya’s hair, when he pulls away from Yohji’s mouth to bite the tendon at the side of his neck. Aya grabs hold of Yohji’s belt buckle and doesn’t let go until they’ve stumbled back to the Porsche and he needs his hands for the wheel.

~

Aya doesn’t think, barely breathes, until they’re both stripped naked and straining urgently against each other on the crappy rug that covers bare floorboards in his room at the Koneko. He’s too far gone to waste any time considering Yohji’s comfort, until a subtle shift in rhythm, an easing back from frantic, makes him glance at Yohji to see if a move to the bed is called for.

Yohji’s as mussed as Aya’s ever seen him: sweat-soaked hair clinging to his neck, chest flushed dark, muscles as pumped as if he’s just run for his life. Aya runs one hand down Yohji’s breastbone, following the line of his ribs around until Yohji’s muscles twitch beneath his fingertips. Ticklish, he notes for next time, before remembering there may not be another time. Right. Better make this one count then.

Aya levers himself to his feet and extends a hand to help Yohji up, gesturing to the bed. Once there, he rummages in his bedside drawer and pulls out condoms and lube, setting them within easy reach.

Yohji smiles at him but his eyes are wide and a little wild, the fingers of one hand tapping at his wrist. Aya slides closer and Yohji’s smile falters.

“Let me guess,” Aya hazards, “you usually top?’

“Well, yeah.” Yohji’s face conveys a world of ‘duh’.

“Not up for this any more?” Yohji asking in the first place was probably the hottest thing Aya had ever heard, but also so unexpected as to feel surreal. Aya doesn’t care if Yohji reneges, as long as they can still get off somehow.

Yohji hesitates, his lower lip caught between his teeth. Aya watches as it slips slowly free, white teeth-marks flushing red.

“I’m up for it,” Yohji grins, “literally.”

Aya checks for himself. Oh yeah. Full steam ahead. He moves forward purposefully but Yohji plants a hand against his chest. “Just…”

“It’s been a while?” Aya surmises after a longish pause.

Yohji gives him a half-nod, looking out of his depth and Aya’s chest tightens. He wants to reassure Yohji that he’ll take care, but that’s not the sort of thing you say to someone with whom you just killed half a dozen men in cold blood. Instead he cups Yohji’s face in his hands and kisses him hard. “It’ll be good,” Aya promises.

He holds on to that thought, channelling everything thrumming beneath his skin into kissing Yohji into a boneless puddle. They kiss for so long that Aya’s lips are swollen with it, his skin sore from grazing against Yohji’s stubble, when he finally pulls his mouth free to pant against Yohji’s collarbone.

Yohji is murmuring encouragement and he has one leg wound around Aya, his foot pressing into the small of Aya’s back to grind their hips closer together. Aya’s head finally clears enough to register words: “now, now, now, come on already, now.” It sounds as if Yohji’s been stuck on repeat for quite some time.

“Turn over,” Aya gets out on his second try, after clearing his throat. But Yohji shakes his head. “Like this, I wanna see.”

Yohji watches intently as Aya fumbles with the lubricant and he ends up drenching his whole hand. He needs to take control here, slow things down or speed them up or something. He pushes Yohji back on the bed and gets his mouth going on his erection with slow, messy licks and loose suction, while he takes his time working lube into Yohji’s ass. Lots and lots of lube, since he has half a bottle’s worth handy. 

Yohji squirms a little beneath Aya’s touch but he’s still rock hard so Aya doesn’t stop. Tight, tight, tight but Aya can feel Yohji yielding and soon he’s moaning, “yeah, right there, right… ohhh”. Aya presses in harder, again and again, until Yohji has lost all coherence and his breathing is ragged with desperation, both hands clutching at Aya’s shoulders. Aya releases Yohji’s dick and gets into position to the accompaniment of broken curses. Yohji was so close that he sounds pretty pissed right now. Just what he needs to get him past –

“Fuck,” Yohji grunts.

Aya waits, sweat stinging his eyes and dripping from his chin. He grips Yohji’s legs so tightly he can feel each finger forming a separate indentation in the muscle. Finally Yohji loosens from his hard arch and then he’s trying to get traction, trying to move himself on Aya, so Aya obliges by rocking gently in and out.

“Oh yeah, yeah, that’s… God, that’s good.” Yohji sounds drunk with bliss and Aya can’t hold back for another second.

“Harder,” Yohji urges, “c’mon, harder.” So Aya goes for broke, thrusting so hard they slide all over the bed and there’s no way he can work Yohji’s dick at the same time, not with his whole body curved into Yohji’s, not with his heart hammering fit to burst. It doesn’t matter though because Yohji stops yelling and stiffens, eyes wide, mouth gaping, as he shoots sticky warmth all over Aya’s belly.

Aya’s sure his heart stops altogether as he comes. He crashes onto Yohji and lies for long moments, heaving air in and out of his lungs.

“Fucking amazing,” Yohji says eventually.

Aya’s glad his face is still pressed against Yohji’s chest because he must be smiling like a loon right now.

Yohji pokes him in the side before he manages to get his expression under control. “You alive in there? I’d kind of like to be able to use my legs again after this.”

Aya rolls off and away and listens as Yohji grumbles quietly while stretching. It sounds just like any post-workout session. Familiar and comfortable, with an overlay of intimacy that Aya is not at all used to. It won’t last. Yohji’s already falling silent and soon that silence will stretch awkwardly and then Yohji will leave –

“So, this thing with Ken?” Damn. Where did that come from?

“What thing?” Yohji answers sleepily before his tone shifts to surprised defensiveness. “Oh. There is no thing!”

Uh huh. Aya turns onto his back and looks at Yohji out of the corner of his eye.

“He was depressed about Yuriko, I did what any friend would do.”

“You fucked him sincerely and compassionately?”

“No!” Yohji looks horrified. “I’ve never… I cheered him up with porn.”

“You watched gay porn with Ken? And you weren’t trying to get him into bed?” Aya’s not sure who is more confused, himself or Yohji.

“It was not gay porn. At least… do lesbians count?” Yohji shrugs. “Whatever. I had no idea he’d stick his hand down my pants. I almost punched him.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t because I liked it! Look, anyone would have…” Yohji runs both hands through his hair, raking it into disarray. “There were hot lesbians and it was just a handjob. A very manly handjob.” He looks at Aya pleadingly.

The sensation of pieces clicking into place leaves Aya dizzy. He takes a moment before pointing out; “Yohji, I fucked you already.”

“Yeah, so?” Yohji pushes his chin forward belligerently.

Aya takes a deep breath and remembers that he was a patient person once upon a time. Not homicidal, at least. Oh well, he can try something new. “You liked it,” he elaborates calmly.

“Yeah, so?” Yohji sounds perplexed now.

“So it’s a bit late to have a heterosexual panic over jerking off with Ken.”

“Oh.” Yohji’s eyes are wide and thoughtful. “I did like it, didn’t I?”

Aya doesn’t dignify that with a response but Yohji doesn’t seem to notice. He smiles dreamily and flops onto his belly, then proceeds to make small snuffling noises until he has his head pillowed on Aya’s shoulder. Aya would tell him to get off but he’s busy following through on a panic of his own. It seems imperative that he stay motionless and breathe quietly so that Yohji doesn’t pick up on it. He stares up at the ceiling. Paint is peeling from it too, revealing an ugly brown undercoat. Fuck. Every recent Yohji-centred event replays in Aya’s head. Wrong. Wrong. He had it all wrong. He’s gone and fallen… he’s gone and fucked a straight guy. Fuck. Fuck, Fuck.

Yohji’s breath tickles against Aya’s chin, warm and regular and he finds his heart-rate gradually slowing in response.

Maybe it isn’t… maybe they can… So he fucked Yohji. It’s not the end of the world. He did like it.

Aya risks a look. Yohji is asleep, a goofy grin on his lips. Aya curls his arm around Yohji’s back, slides his hand onto Yohji’s side. After a minute he even relaxes his muscles to let the weight rest. Yohji doesn’t stir. Looks like he must be staying.


End file.
